


Hardly Mattered

by wreathed



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Glasses, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dakin remembers what might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly Mattered

Dakin lay in the middle of his bed, facing the empty ceiling. There was plenty of room on either side of him, as the bed was a double and he was alone. Well, not alone, of course, in the significant sense – his youthful smile that had always ensured him whatever he wanted (on all but one occasion, but Dakin shouldn’t think about that) meant, as always, that he had a girlfriend that sometimes made him happy. It was difficult to discern the memory of each one from another, when Dakin chose to dwell (and did so consciously to be dwelling on anyone but _him_ ) and in the end all his conquests blurred into a single figure: a woman who looked like Fiona, but with somebody else’s eyes and willingness to put out. He’d tried men too, but it just hadn’t seemed right, they just didn’t seem right.

The girlfriend was away from here tonight though – an opportune foreign conference – and suddenly it was easy for Dakin to imagine her absent from his life. She could die tomorrow, anything is possible – and at that thought he suddenly stopped resisting and remembered Hector’s accident, and then _one fucking thing after another_ (he smirked into the darkness) and _any chance of you sucking me off_ (the smirk relaxed and his face became contorted, forgotten) – that was something that could’ve happened, but never did – Dakin was sure that if either motorcycles or Hector hadn’t been invented it would have happened, because Dakin always gets what he wants.

He still recollects how it could have been. His mind treads a familiar path of fantasy now, beginning with an Irwin that doesn’t flinch and pull out his diary ( _so fucking careful_ ) but closes the space between and smiles faintly. Dakin imagines him, in that non-descript, grey classroom, obediently dropping to his knees, subserviant, yet pressing Dakin up against the pallid wall with his hands, kissing not thought of – it would be too trite, but also too meaningful.

The scene jolts forward in time, Irwin’s tie has been loosened and, across his blushing bare chest, the sight of it is beautifully debauched; Dakin’s clothes have disappeared, Irwin still has his trousers, shoes, glasses all on. Dakin suddenly pulls hard on the tie insistantly and thrusts as Irwin has his lips tight around Dakin’s cock, it is clear that he is not unpracticed as he creates friction along the shaft and, Dakin is sure, the pornographic slurping noises Irwin is making could be heard if anyone was walking past the hastily-closed door. One white finger is tracing infuriatingly languid circles around Dakin’s puckered hole, the other hand still pressing one of Dakin’s into brick and paint. This, all of it, is more than enough to sustain Dakin’s short sharp moans, cause his eyelids to flutter half-closed and his head to roll back, but it was not until Dakin opened his eyes again and took in the sight, his teacher sucking him off _because he had told him to_ that he comes, hard, gasping _sir_ , and he can see Irwin’s throat move as he swallows it all, even though the edges of his vision are blurred. Dakin’s hair is mussed, a progression from his rigid combed style, and Irwin stands up, but still doesn’t kiss him. Dakin notices a smudge of his own come below the bottom lip of Irwin’s mouth; still breathing heavily, he motions to the same place on his own mouth to alert the other man and Irwin flicks out a pointed tongue and licks, then grazes his bottom lip with his teeth. The men’s eyes meet, they are as close together now as they can be without touching. Dakin can sense Irwin’s arousal, can feel the heat, and, he realises with sudden clarity, the man can not be comfortable. However, Dakin has got what he wanted, and does not intend to thank Irwin on his knees, so searches for the self-serving compromise.

"Do it yourself," Dakin intones hoarsely, sounding more uncaring than he means to. Irwin obeys again, although there is surely little thought required, as he unzips his trousers and pulls them down with his underwear: his eyes lock with Dakin’s, and their breathing is in time as Irwin strokes once, twice, and comes from nothing else, quivering. He doesn’t say Dakin’s name when he comes, but he looks like he’s pressing his lips together to stop himself for doing so – his only successful attempt at censorship, at holding on to self-control, at exhibiting pride not shame.

Even though they don’t kiss, and even though there are no names, their mutual gaze is searing and personal. The frisson of the room seems to shine, and there is nothing else in the world, no history, just for a few seconds.

The Dakin in the expensieve London apartment, the real Dakin, had come from the thoughts in his head, hands on his prick, in a heated, sticky rush. As he lay in his too-big bed – arms and legs splayed wide still left unfilled space – he realised that Irwin, in his mind, never removed his glasses after all. He somehow was unimaginable without them to Dakin now, he realised. Oddly, he could imagine Irwin sliding his hands up Dakin’s thighs, Irwin sucking on Dakin’s fingers, Irwin panting as Dakin edged towards him, yet his wire frames were always there – often askew, but always present.

It would have been real, Dakin decided. It would have been real, it would have happened exactly like that, if there hadn’t been accidents, or Irwin's tentativeness to contend with. But it wouldn’t have lasted. Dakin would still be here now, just like this, merely dwelling on a memory that was real instead of a memory that was created. Yet he knew the sequence of events so well, he reasoned with himself, always the same every time, that whether the _drink_ had ever really happened or not hardly mattered.


End file.
